


The Personal Touch

by Masu_Trout



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Ashamed of Attraction, Begging, Blow Jobs, But Not in a RACK Way, Consensual, Dom/sub Undertones, Ghoul Kink, Kneeling, M/M, Praise Kink, Sexual Repression, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-18 06:25:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13676106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: If Danse has time enough to spout Brotherhood propaganda like a radio broadcast on repeat, then he's got time enough to put his mouth to better use. Hancock helps him figure out just what thatbetter usemight be.





	The Personal Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fingalsanteater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/gifts).



For all the complaints Hancock had about Danse—and fuck, were there ever many—he couldn't deny the man looked good on his knees. There was just something about it: the combination of naked shame and poorly-hidden arousal, the way his eyes kept flicking up to meet Hancock's for all he tried to stare off into the distance, the flush that crept over his neck and across his cheeks until he was just about red all over.

Most of the time, there wasn't much of a difference between fucking a ghoul and fucking a smoothskin. Hancock wasn't one of those pathetic assholes who chased after Vault Dwellers or ranted and raved about _Ghouls needing to stick together_ while drinking alone and bitter at the bar; he had the good drugs and he had a _fantastic_ body, and anyone worth talking to was invited to spend the night.

With Danse, though, it was different. A guy like him required a special touch.

“Come on,” Hancock growled. “You forgot your manners already?”

He stroked a hand along Danse's cheek, just to cherish the shudder of mixed disgust and desire that tore through Danse's body at the feel of Hancock's pockmarked skin. He'd been following Hancock around for most of the evening now, picking and picking and _picking_ the way he did when he knew what he wanted but wasn't willing to ask for it. 

Lucky for him, Hancock was generous. With all the insults he'd been throwing around, Hancock would've been just as justified shanking him as fucking him. He'd done worse to people for much, much less.

Danse's mouth turned down into a vicious, closed-off frown, and he locked his gaze down onto the ground as if he were about to get a dressing-down from some big burly Brotherhood general. 

Probably imagining what his superiors would say if they could see him now, with his shirt off and his pants unbuttoned and his cock half-hard as he knelt in front of a ghoul, Hancock thought. Probably getting off on it.

“Whatever you're going to do,” he snapped out, voice barely above a whisper, “just… get it over with.”

Normally, that would be enough of a cue for Hancock; Danse was a pain in the ass about asking for things, but he always made it clear enough when he liked something from the choked-off little noises he made and the way he'd arch into Hancock's touch.

Tonight, though… Hancock paused, mouth open, halfway to telling Danse to turn over and lie on a nearby table. Sanctuary was one of the most spacious settlements they'd ever visited. Nora'd had room enough to put each of them up in their own barely-even-dilapidated house. No one would hear them tonight.

And Danse _had_ been really fucking rude.

Hancock let his voice slide into something slick and slimy and altogether far too friendly as he grabbed Danse's chin and wrenched his head back up. “Come on now,” he said, “how could I do _that_? We're allies here, aren't we? Practically friends.”

Danse squirmed a moment, eyes wide and face a deep, agonized red. There was no question he realized this was going differently than normal.

A couple fingers tracing over his lips, dipping in briefly to press against his tongue, was enough to replace his tension with a barely-stifled moan. He went still like a statue at the taste of Hancock's skin. His lips parted slightly. The only bit of him that moved was his tongue, just enough to run back and forth over the uneven texture there.

“Is this how they train you over at the Brotherhood?” Hancock asked. “Get you at parade rest, have you stand there all nice and pretty while they run their hands all over you?”

Danse's eyes sparked with anger, and for a second it looked like he might spit out another insult. Quick as lightning, Hancock slipped his fingers in deeper and pinched Danse's tongue between two of the digits.

“I don't think so,” he said, “you've already said a whole lot tonight.”

Danse made a cut off little whining noise, like a dog. It suited him.

“You did get me thinking, though,” Hancock continued. “Really made me wonder, you know? If I wasn't hurting you, making you feel uncomfortable. I'm a man of the people, after all. I like to protect my own.” He knelt down then, got real close up in Danse's face so that all the could see was his teeth and his tongue and his pitch black eyes set into ruined skin.

Let him look. He stared often enough anyway.

“I'd hate to think you were suffering at the hands of some _violent abomination_.” 

Danse's own words, slapped back into his own face, sounded so much harsher here than muttered quietly around the edge of a campfire. Hancock hadn't even realized they'd gotten him so pissed until he felt the echo of that anger as they rolled across his tongue.

At the very least Danse had the decency to look ashamed. His eyes dropped to the ground and he mumbled something that almost might have been the start of an apology around Hancock's fingers. (Probably not, honestly, but Hancock could dream.)

Hancock smiled. “Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not gonna do anything bad to you to you. More like the opposite, really. I want to make sure you're _really_ enjoying yourself. So, from now on? You want something, you _ask_ me. Else we can sit here allllll night and stare each other right in the face.” With that, to punctuate his words, he slipped his fingers free and left Danse's mouth open and ready for the talking.

Danse's eyes went wide and he snapped back like he'd been struck, rocked halfway onto his heels as if Hancock's words were a physical blow. For a moment Hancock thought he'd gone too far—this was it, the final straw, the thing that would make a man who'd kissed a ghoul's feet and moaned at the feel of a ghoul cock inside him stand up and walk away.

He'd be disappointed if it was, he realized. For all Danse drove him fucking crazy, he could be fun sometimes. Fun to tease, mostly, but it all counted the same.

In the next second, Danse had quieted. His face was still more flushed than Hancock had ever seen it; made the scars across his body show thick and heavy like trails drawn on a map. He opened his mouth, closed it, licked his lips, and finally said, “I…”

Hancock didn't say a word. Just let Danse's shaking nerves carry the words out into the air.

“I—please,” he continued. “I want you.”

“Well, that's a start.” Hancock stood once more, then reached down to ruffle Danse's hair as if he were Dogmeat. “Gonna need to be a _bit_ more specific, though, unless you're saying you want the pleasure of my sparkling company.”

A pause, and then the words spilled out so fast it was like Danse was trying to force them out of his throat before he could realize what he was saying. “I want to suck you.”

He sounded more ashamed than he ever had before tonight, and yet his cock, trapped as it was beneath layers of cloth, was hard as ever.

Hancock liked this game. His biggest regret was not coming up with it before tonight.

“Look at you,” he said approvingly. “See, you're getting it already. Come here.”

With one hand, he grabbed Danse's chin and pulled him closer until his face was pressed right up against Hancock's cloth-covered erection.

This part of the proceedings, at least, they both knew the rules to. Danse kept his arms locked tight behind his back, pressed his mouth closer so he could clumsily work to undo the button on Hancock's pants. His mouth was wet and hot, impressively skilled for a repressed Brotherhood stiff, and for a little while Hancock just groaned under his breath and let himself watch and enjoy the moment.

 _Fuck_ would this ever be a good time for a hit of Jet. He wanted to stay sharp, though, so instead he just popped a single Mentat out of a tin in his coat pocket and let it dissolve on his tongue. The world sharpened around him: sensations heightening, every line of Danse's body lit in stark relief, sights and sounds and textures snapping into focus.

Ought to keep him like this all the time, he thought lazily. Everyone would appreciate him better this way. Just stick him in the power armor when they needed someone to shoot the big guns, then pull him right out after and get him back on knees where he belonged.

(Danse seemed to appreciate being told as much, if the way he groaned and attacked the cloth over Hancock's dick with a renewed eagerness when Hancock suggested his idea out loud was any indication.)

When Danse had finally got Hancock's dick free, though, he decided to change the game up a little more. He fisted his hand in Danse's hair before the man could get his length down his throat, tilted his head up once more so Hancock could look down properly at him.

“Hancock,” Danse snarled. His voice had already gone rough and low and raspy.

“Sure you still want it?” He reached down with his free hand, gave himself a leisurely stroke. “No last-minute regrets, sucking a ghoul's dick?”

Danse shook his head minutely.

“Come on, now, how am I supposed to know if _that's_ sincere? I couldn't bear the thought of taking advantage. So Danse,” he said, and pressed his fingers against Danse's mouth to smear a bit of pre-cum there, “tell me properly.”

Danse didn't move. For a moment he was entirely, impossibly still, a first-gen synth laying deactivated in an abandoned building, a protectron shut down and rusted over, and then his tongue darted out from between his teeth to taste Hancock on his lips.

“Please,” he snapped, angry and embarrassed and so very clearly fucking dying for this, “I want it. On… my face.”

“Your face?” Hancock asked. “What, you want me to fuck your face for you?”

Danse made it halfway through a nod. Hancock thought about fucking with him a bit more, making him really work for it, but even he wasn't that cruel. Instead he just smiled his sweetest smile and said, “Well, if you insist,” and pulled Danse closer until he opened his mouth for him.

Working up a rhythm was easy with Danse; he knew just how let his mouth and his throat go slack so he could feel all of Hancock's ridged length sliding down his throat, knew just how to let himself be manhandled and manipulated into place. Like a doll, really, except a doll wouldn't have to grab their own wrists behind their back to keep themself from palming their dick through the fabric of their fancy fucking Brotherhood outfit.

“Fuck,” Hancock hissed as he slid into Danse's mouth, “fuck, _fuck_.”

That was as eloquent as he ever got during this routine—sex didn't exactly bring out the poet in him—but tonight he was feeling lazy and sated and just the tiniest bit fond. It was easy to let a few more words slip through his teeth. 

Hadn't even been on purpose really, but when he hissed out, “Fuck, Danse, you feel so fucking good,” and Danse nearly choked and lost his rhythm on the strength of his own desperate moan, Hancock _knew_ he'd struck gold.

“You like that?” he asked. He sped up just a bit and adjusted his grip on the back of Danse's head, forcing Danse to focus entirely on the feeling of Hancock inside him, and then he just let himself babble whatever came to his mind as he stared down at Danse's pretty face.

“It's true,” he said, sliding deeper, “fucking amazing,” and then out, “absolutely perfect. You're so good to me, Danse, goddamn fantastic, I could look at you all night when I'm inside you. It's like you were made for this,” sentence upon sentence of babbled praise as he thrust into him.

For once, Hancock wasn't focusing on his own pleasure with Danse. He was too busy watching the way Danse's expression tightened and his toes curled against the cracked linoleum and his hands dug into each other so hard he had to be leaving bruises against his own wrists, until Hancock thrust deep and slipped in a quick “Good boy,” and Danse—amazingly, impossibly, fucking unbelievably—gasped and screwed his eyes shut and came, shaking, completely untouched, from nothing but Hancock's dick in his mouth and his words in his ears.

Two more snaps of his hips and Hancock was gone. He pulled out as he finished, let himself come into his hand, because he could be an asshole but he wasn't mean enough to add that to what Danse was dealing with right now.

Danse was crouched on the floor still, lips parted and drool at the corner of his mouth and his eyes bright and red from what could only be brimming tears. Not crying, exactly, just completely on edge and absent from his own body.

“Fuck,” Hancock muttered with feeling. He tucked himself away, wiped his hand off on the tattered remains of a nearby curtain. All the while he watched Danse.

Normally this would be the part where Hancock walked away. He'd gotten his, so had Danse, best they split up and cleaned off and woke up early enough in the morning to be snapping at each other again by noon. Neither of them would have to sink low enough to admit they'd slept with the other.

But this—this was different. Not bad-different, he didn't think, but all the same he knew he wouldn't feel right with himself if he left Danse crouched alone on the floor like this. He didn't pretend to like the man, but he understood something of how his mind worked: he'd turn this over and over in his head while he came back to himself, let that shame dig deeper and deeper, and by this time tomorrow he'd have worked himself into the kind of insane self-loathing most people had to kick puppies and murder kittens to manage feeling. 

Wouldn't be fair. Not even if the guy was a fucking bigoted asshole ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time.

So Hancock crouched down next to Danse, wrapped one arm around his shoulder, and rubbed small circles against his back as Danse shook and shuddered his way through what was both the weirdest post-orgasm comedown and the weirdest bout of crying Hancock had ever seen in his life.

“Shh,” he said softly, “ssh, you're fine, you did good, you were amazing,” and he might've sounded like an idiot saying it but he didn't think he was wrong.

Danse wasn't so bad, like this. A huge pile of messy hang-ups and self-repression, but who wasn't? And if he hated Hancock in the morning for trying to comfort him this way, well… not as if that would be anything new.

He could risk it. He didn't mind.


End file.
